A Year Without You
by hollyhobbit101
Summary: It felt like Alfred had lived a thousand years without him


**A/N: Since today is the 175th anniversary of the real Edward Drummond's death, here's a fic for you all! Hope you enjoy!**

* * *

Alfred picked up the black cloth from where it lay on the chair, studying it for a moment. He didn't wear it so much these days as he had done before, but today was different. Today was a year since _it_ had happened, and it didn't feel right that he just went about his business like it was any other day. He remembered oh so clearly that day a year ago (and had it really only been a year? It felt like so much more) when the duchess had handed him that fateful letter, and his eyes misted over. He wondered what Edward would think of him, crying like this at the slightest memory.

 _"Women are so damn emotional,"_ he had said, his voice ringing clear as day in Alfred's mind.

A watery smile tugged at Alfred's lips. _Not just women, my friend,_ he thought.

Movement from downstairs brought Alfred out of his thoughts, and he looked back at the cloth to find that, at some point, his hand had begun shaking with the ferocity with which he was gripping it. He slowly unclenched his fist and busied himself by wrapping the material around his right arm, tying so tight that it almost cut off all feeling. How appropriate.

* * *

Some time later, a knock came at the door, and Alfred looked up to see Wilhelmina standing awkwardly just outside. He smiled as warmly as he could manage and set aside the book he had been attempting to read, carefully marking the page.

"Come in, please," he greeted, shifting on the seat to make room for her. She smiled prettily and joined him, although making sure to leave a respectable distance between them. Alfred smiled at that; they had been married for a few months now, yet she still seemed as shy around him as the day they met. It was true that they were little more than close friends, but they had to keep up an appearance for others. Not that it mattered when they were alone like this, Alfred supposed.

"Are you well, L- Alfred?" Wilhelmina asked, blushing slightly as she tripped over his title.

"Quite well, thank you. And you?" Alfred replied, wincing at how stilted the conversation was. They weren't normally like this. Perhaps she, too, realised the significance of the day.

"Oh, I am well," she responded a little too enthusiastically. They lapsed into silence again, then Wilhelmina reached out and picked up Alfred's book. "The Iliad?" she said softly.

Alfred nodded. "Yes. I..." His voice trailed off, a lump forming in his throat. He coughed, then tried again. "I am finding myself in need of something familiar, today," he said thickly.

Wilhelmina smiled and reached out to hesitantly place her hand on top of his. Alfred closed his eyes, unable to stifle the emotions that were threatening to overcome him. "I understand," she murmured. "Perhaps I should leave you to your book, then." She stood and smoothed down her skirt, moving to the door. Alfred hesitated a moment, then gathered his courage.

"Wilhelmina, wait," he called out, standing and walking over to her. She waited expectantly, hands folded demurely in front of her.

"Yes, Alfred?" she asked curiously.

"Would you stay for a while?" he forced out. "That is to say... You are very dear to me, Wilhelmina, and I take great comfort in your company. I should like it if you would stay and talk with me for a moment."

"I will do my best, although I must admit that I am not the best at conversation," she replied kindly.

"I'm sure it will suffice," Alfred said amusedly. "And perhaps, later, you might accompany to- to the grave? I feel it is only right."

"I... Are you certain?" she asked worriedly.

"Quite certain," Alfred said. "I feel it is only right."

"Of course, then," Wilhelmina said, smiling at him. She took his hand (it had started shaking again; how odd) and led him back to the seat, making some comment about the goings on at the palace. Alfred tried to join in on the conversation, but he felt it was rather one-sided. Apparently it wasn't as easy to take his mind off Edward as he had hoped it would be.

* * *

The January air bit into Alfred skin as he drew his coat tighter around him. He glanced over at Wilhelmina, but she simply smiled and held his arm tighter in solidarity. He attempted to smile back, but it soon melted off his face as they found themselves confronted with the headstone.

 _In Loving Memory_

 _of_

 _EDWARD DRUMMOND_

So _n of_

 _Charles Drummond and Francis Dorothy Drummond_

 _Born 30th March 1818_

 _Died 25th January 1843_

It was a simple inscription, rather befitting of Edward. Not that he had been simple, far from it, but he had never been a man of excess and indulgence - not in the way Alfred was at least. There was a light snow dusting the top of the stone, and some winter flowers had sprung up next to it, making the whole scene look rather pretty. So unlike the horror that had occurred a year ago.

Wilhelmina silently offered him a handkerchief, and Alfred raised a gloved hand to his cheek, surprised when it came back wet. He took the handkerchief and wiped at his eyes, although he was unable to stop the flood of tears that were cascading down his cheeks.

"Thank you, Wilhelmina," he choked out. "I- I don't know what I would do without your handkerchiefs."

She smiled and patted his arm. "Perhaps I should go and ready the carriage," she said softly.

"Yes," Alfred agreed, knowing he ought to go with her, but unwilling to leave without saying goodbye to Edward. "Perhaps that would be best."

She squeezed his arm once, then let go, moving off down the snow-dusted paths to where their carriage was waiting. Alfred watched her go, then looked back at the grave. It was hard to believe that _he_ was lying underneath Alfred's feet, as cold and still as the stone before him. Edward's face flashed before his eyes, bright, and laughing, and alive. Hard to believe that that beautiful face was rotting away underground, never smiling nor laughing. Hard to believe that Alfred would have to live the rest of his life without seeing it again, except in his memories.

The thought brought fresh tears to Alfred's eyes, and he bent his head so that passers-by wouldn't suspect anything. He reached into his pocket and brought out the locket Wilhelmina had given him. He opened it and brushed a thumb across the delicately woven strands of hair. It didn't feel right. Alfred remembered winding his fingers through the curls at the base of Edward's neck when they had kissed by that Scottish loch, and he remembered how soft and warm it had felt. This felt dead and cold. Perhaps it was right after all, then.

Alfred snapped the locket shut and, checking that nobody was watching, pressed his fingers to his lips and brushed them against the stone.

"Goodbye, Edward," he choked, then turned away and, wiping a few more times at his eyes, walked to where Wilhelmina was waiting by the carriage. She smiled sympathetically when they climbed into the coach, then slipped her hand in his comfortingly. He was grateful for her presence because, although he could never love her, not like he had loved Edward, she at least understood.

As the carriage drew away, he looked out the window once more at the graves. He quickly located Edward's, and watched it until it disappeared from view, feeling like he had left a piece of himself behind. But then, he thought as Edward's laughter echoed in his ears, perhaps Edward had left a part of himself within Alfred, too.

* * *

 **A/N: Wow for once I'm happy with the ending, will miracles never cease? I realised I fudged the dates a little, but that's because good old Daisy Goodwin messed with them in the first place. The real Edward Drummond was born on 30th March 1792, but the death date I wrote here is the same, and I estimated him to be around 25. Anyway. Please leave a review if you have a moment! Bye!**


End file.
